Impulses (44 page)

Yet her smile lights me up.

“You never talk much about your childhood.”

She shifts and inhales deeply. Looking me in the eye, she shrugs her shoulders. “I’ve seen a lot. Like the wise baboon said, ‘
it doesn’t matter anymore, it’s in the past’,
right?”

I press my lips together forming a firm, straight line in an attempt to stifle my chuckle. My eyes widen with unveiled amusement. “Did you really, just quote, Disney, Miss Kennedy?”

Bowing her head for a second, a saddened snigger travels on her exhale. She peeks up. “I’m like you, Hayden; I don’t want anybody’s pity.”

“There is a difference between pity and compassion, beautiful,” I recite the valued words of my mother. “What about your parents?”

“Hayden––” she grumbles, tossing her head back in exasperation.

Holding my hands up, palms facing her I quickly interrupt. “I promise, no pity…no one will ever receive any form of pity from me. I don’t like being subjected to it, so why would I inflict it on another?” I shake my head brusquely, in an attempt to prove my point.

Hanging her head and swirling the bubbles around her middle, she inhales heavily and licks her lips. “My dad died when I was very little.”

What? I did not expect that. “I’m sorry…I––”

“It is okay. I was so young. I have very few memories, maybe one or two photographs.”

“I couldn’t possibly imagine not having any memories of my dad.” And I couldn’t. Memories are the only thing that can possibly fill the void that’s left behind. Not having memories…it’s like he never existed.

“I was told stories. When you hear a certain story over and over, you can create them into something more…so you recall it as either a vivid dream, or a memory.” She glances up at me, and offers a tightlipped smile. “I prefer the latter.

“He was um…” she frowns and cocks her head, the furrows of her brow deepening as she swallows, “…getting into the car just after leaving work, when he had a massive heart attack. He died on his own.”

Around her nose, mouth and eyes turn a bright red, and in an instant, I know that I’ve stumbled upon a very raw nerve while she represses her emotions. As quick as the redness appeared, she pushes it back, fighting to stay strong.

Sniffling, she regains her composure. “He was only thirty-six.”

I shake my head and ask, “What about your, mother?”

Rolling her eyes, she sighs and wobbles her head in defeat. “I gave up trying to figure out if a parent changes as you mature, or whether you just become wiser, and realize that they aren’t as honorable as what you once believed.”

She scoops up some of the bursting bubbles from around her middle.

“My mom’s epileptic. And when my dad died, she had to sell the majority of our stuff to give him a half-decent burial.”

Her words knock the air from me and make my heart billow; selling their possessions to bury their, husband/father? My God, I didn’t realize how much I took for granted.

“We lived in this tiny one bedroomed apartment,” she resumes staring inexpressive at the swaying liquid between us. “Everything we had was hand-me-downs. I remember the horrible, dark brown and burnish orange carpet. The couch was just as hideous, with oversized beige floral prints…but it was ours. And we had sliding doors that led into the bedroom.”

She takes the washcloth off the side and pulls it into the tub. Rubbing her shoulder, I wait patiently for her to resume.

“I must have been about three. I was sat on the couch watching the portable TV, and I heard a clatter from the kitchen,” she grimaces, and the flush around her eyes and nose blazes again. “I went out to see what had happened, and that’s when I saw her…and the blood.”

My eyes widen,
blood?

“Mom had a collapsed due to her seizure…” she swallows hard, her mouth twitching as though she is about to be physically ill. “And she landed on one of the knives.”

I sit motionless, gaping as I take in Samantha’s sorrowful reminiscences. I feel my eyes burn with tears that I so desperately want to release, but I suppress them with every fibre of my being.

“By the time I was four, I was taught what to do if Mom went into an epileptic fit. Everything from, what position to put her into, making sure that she was safe, even putting my fingers into her mouth to make sure she never swallowed her tongue.”

The water is still so warm, yet my inner chill spawns a full, unrelenting tremor upon my body which I cannot fight. My throat constricts, pressing against the bitter mass blocking my windpipe, and a lone tear escapes my eye as I imagine a little red-haired girl, sat on the floor cradling her mother’s head in her lap.

Thankfully, Samantha doesn’t witness my sympathetic display of emotion, as she never once looks up at me. All I can do is watch on as she remains anchored to her past.

“I even had to learn which of her medications to give to her, if she was unable to do it herself.

“I couldn’t go out with my friends, just in case anything happened. And when I got older, I began to resent that fact.” She peeks up at me from under her lashes, her eyes shimmering, and distressed. She raises her shoulders, and shakes her head simultaneously, while displaying an enforced, longing grin. “I just wanted to be a normal girl and go play,” she mutters, her voice broken and breathy. “So one day, I decided to do just that. There was a bit of lawn across from the apartment, and I went over with two of my girlfriends, doing girly things like handstands, or pretending we were pop stars and the lawn was our arena,” she chuckles, and another melancholic smile sculpts its way over her face.

“I was only out for about thirty minutes. When I went back in I called out for my mom to let her know I was home, but she didn’t answer. So I took my coat and shoes off and…” her smile fades into nothingness, her eyes more bleak and distressed than I have seen. “I found her on the floor, in the middle of the room…unconscious.”

To say that my heart sinks to my stomach is the understatement of the century; it sinks to the lost depths of Atlantis. How could a child live this way, a sacrificed childhood which is filled with so much responsibility…at such a young age?

“While I was out, she had a seizure and as she collapsed…” she lifts her head, and glances up at the ceiling, rolling her eyes to keep her own, painful tears contained. Exhaling a cleansing breath she finishes, “She hit her head on the hearth.”

I shake my head in sheer, utter, shock. No wonder she never told me about any of this. My poor Samantha never once had a break; she holds a crevasse of painful, heartrending memories that stem well beyond that of adulthood. I want to take her in my arms and kiss all of those memories away, to wrap her in cotton wool and vow to protect her both physically and emotionally until my last, dying breath.

Regaining her composure, she breaks the stifling silence hanging above and around us.

“And that isn’t even the tip of the iceberg of what I have seen.” She cups her hands together, and scoops up some water, splashing it on her face.

Not even the tip? There’s more? How on earth could there possibly be more? Oh, Samantha. Her strength was the one of the first attributes I was attracted to. And now I know how she came to acquire that inner-strength.

I push past the lump of compassion that clogs up my windpipe. “You are so, so strong, Samantha,” my voice trembling as I hold my tears prisoner.

She shakes her head. “No, Hayden. I’m not. I just deal with it, and move on.” She looks almost serene. But her blue eyes are hard and resilient to her blight.

“But…” I sigh heavily. My own eyes offer more pain at her past, than what she is displaying. “You never had a childhood.”

Samantha peeks down to her side, silence echoing around the bathroom for just a moment. I see the corners of her mouth curl as she exhales. For the first time, she looks me deep in the eyes; the biggest, saddest smile I have ever seen adorns the tranquillity of her features. And then the realization and severity of her deprivation, hit us like a bowling ball to the gut.

The pain and sorrow, the grief and regret finally becomes apparent, as the strength she had to muster with the responsibilities she had to yield, is finally penetrated. Shimmering, crystal blue eyes study me profoundly; the tell-tale signs of her emotions arise as the
T-Zone
of her face turns bright red. The whites of her eyes become bloodshot as streams of tears well up in their confinement, pushing the boundaries of their barracks, looking for an escape.

She sniffles once, and then with a husky, broken voice––but still maintaining that longing smile––says, “You can’t miss what you never had, right?”

I notice a tear about to spill over her lid, when she quickly tips her head back, rolls her eyes and pushes them away. Even after this, she still refuses to surrender to the sadness. I am in awe of her.

“Samantha––” my eyes are stinging, and I cannot show the strength that she has. I allow my tears to flow. I shimmy along the circumference of the tub to comfort her, but she stops me, and points her index finger at me scornfully.

“No, Hayden––you promised me,” she shakes her head, her jaw working vigorously under her flesh. “Please, you promised me.”

Yes, I did promise her, and it is not pity that I am feeling, but compassion and empathy. And awe, that she has been through so much, seen so much, and she just…carries on. I never in a million years expected to hear the extent of the hidden, sorrowful memories that she has shared with me. I want to make her better, to take away all of that unseen, suppressed, buried pain that she has, but won’t surrender to.

“Don’t you have, any contact with any of your family, Sam?”

“There’s my cousin, Aimee, and the lady who lived next door to us. She watched me grow up, and was always there for me. In the end I dubbed her my, honorary auntie,” she giggles. “There’s Jessie, her parents and her two brothers. And then there’s you.”

Me? She sees me as family? Do I think of her as my family…? I cannot possibly imagine my life without her, she is my all. She is my life. Yes, I suppose she is my family, too. I think I have fallen in love with her all over again.

She smiles, and places her hand on my cheek. “You lot, are all I need. I love you, Hayden.” She leans in and her mouth connects with mine.

“I love you, too, beautiful,” I breathe against her lips.

Wanting to eradicate the sorrowful and despondent, thick atmosphere and uplift our spirits after such a harrowing declaration, I push myself up from the bath, and wrap the robe around my body.

Watching me like a hawk, Samantha asks, “Where are you going?”

“One second.” I hold my index finger up to her, and quickly retrieve the hotel phone, and my gift that I found while we were on our shopping trip this afternoon. This has got to cheer her up.

I saunter back to the bathroom with the receiver to my ear. “Hello. Can I have a pint of Ben and Jerry’s sent up to the Grand Suite please?” Samantha stares at me, brow raised and a delightfully, amused grin on her face. “Yes, hold on one moment please.” I pull the handset from my ear, to my chest, effectively covering the mouthpiece, “What flavor?”

Indecisive, she shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know…” she squeals, and then briskly rasps, “Cookie dough?”

“We will have the cookie dough, if you have it. Thank you.” I hang up, and turn to Samantha. Resignedly, she shakes her head at me. “What?”

“You know we are going to pay for that with one hell of a stomach-ache tonight, don’t you.”

“It beats drowning in alcohol, and having to cope with the hangover in the morning.”

Acquiescing, she nods her head, and pouts playfully.

“I have a surprise for you,” I say buoyantly.

“Another one?”

“Yes, but I think you will appreciate this one, a little more.”

The water splashes and waves as Samantha shifts and props her forearms along the rim of the tub. She rests her chin upon them, as though she is about to have her portrait taken. Even with her hair piled, knotted and stray tendrils draping, her beauty is still breathtaking. Eyes flaring with enthusiasm and curiosity, she sinks her teeth into her lip and lets it roll free.

“Oh, come on, Hayden. You’re killing me here. What did you get?”

I wiggle my hips playfully and with a flourish, pull my arm around from its concealment.

Like a Meerkat, she is up straight and full of attention.

“Oh, my God, Hayden; when did you find time to search for that?” she shrieks, lifting her arm to seize the copy of her favorite movie.

“Well, it turns out, women take a lot longer to shop than men.” She gazes up at me, and then back down at the cover. “I had time to waste,” I smile.

“Oh, Hayden…” she pushes herself up from the depth of the tub and pounces on me, flinging her arms around my neck as I clutch her wet, naked body close to mine. “This means so much, and I love you, so much.”

I bury my face into the crook of her neck and inhale the vanilla scent that covers her body. “I love you too, beautiful. I love you, too.”

Samantha’s head rests peaceful upon my shoulder, as we lounge in the queen-sized bed watching Pretty Woman. I now know why she loves it so much. It shows that love can creep up on anyone, regardless of how different you are, and the attitude you uphold.

As the credits roll up the screen, I recover the remote that hides in the valley between our bodies and the thick, fluffy comforter. Pressing the button, the forty-two inch screen flickers then goes blank. In silence, I glimpse down at Samantha, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted. Her left hand rests high on my chest, near my collarbone. She looks so peaceful when she sleeps. Brushing my hand over her hairline, I wonder idly what her dreams comprise of.

Careful not to disturb Sleeping Beauty, I inch my way out of the bed to brush my teeth.

For some baffling reason––regardless of how much I want to––I find I’m unable to climb back into the soft, warm mattress after I have finished in the restroom. So I sit in the beige loveseat at the foot of the bed, beside the TV, and observe my beloved’s slumbering form, for minutes? Hours? I have no idea.